Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

In the library everything looked the same as before — except Lacy DeBeck wasn’t lying facedown on the rug, and the bloodstain had been removed, leaving a faintly fighter area. On the wet bar in the corner were bottles of whisky, white wine, sodas, an ice bucket. A Mr. Coffee machine burped next to the ice.

The two armchairs and their little tables still faced each other. Dean wondered what Lacy and his killer, sitting in those two chairs and sipping Wild Turkey, had talked about? Had it been Marty sitting in this other chair? Was his talk about the evils of inherited wealth a smokescreen? Was he really bitter that he had squandered his inheritance and Lacy had kept his?

He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Tiffany stepped into the room, wearing blue slacks and an off-white blouse, her hair mounded on top, her wide mouth dark with black lipstick. “That brother,” she said. “Do you think he’s all there?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know. But he called me yesterday and went on about how loyal Gran and I were, how we stuck by his brother even though he was ‘difficult,’ and then he insisted we come here this afternoon. Said we wouldn’t regret it. You don’t think he’s weird? And what are all these actors doing here? I don’t get it.”

“I think he wants to announce something,” said Dean, forcing his eyes from her dark mouth, “and he has to have an audience.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Marty DeBeck flowed into the room, one arm extended in the gesture of a Roman senator, and got a cold glance from Dean. On his heels were Trish, the lawyer, and six or seven players. “We’re not quite all here,” said Marty, pouring himself a drink. “Oh lordy, this is going to be fun.”

“Fun?” said Tiffany.

Marty looked at her and raised an appreciative eyebrow. “God, what a great Ophelia you’d make. Or Desdemona. Wouldn’t you like to join our acting company?”

“Probably not,” said Tiffany.

“A shame.” Marty stepped over to the french doors. “Great view of Shincracker Hill. You ever been up there, lieutenant?”

They heard the kitchen door in back open and close, and the host raised a finger. “Our last guest has arrived. Can you imagine a house on top of Shincracker? Views of the Green Mountains, the White Mountains, Canada.”

Rob Clampitt walked into the room. He saw Dean and stiffened.

“Glad you could make it, Rob,” said Marty. “Pour yourself a drink.”

Tiffany started to move past them onto the balcony. “Where to, young lady?” said Marty.

Blushing a little, Tiffany said, “To the balcony for a smoke.”

“The balcony? Nonsense. This is my house now, and you may smoke wherever and whenever you want.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a sinking heart Dean watched her dig a lighter out of her pants pocket and light her cigarette. Told himself he was being crazy; the fact that she smoked and was left-handed didn’t mean a thing.

Marty DeBeck clapped his hands. “All right, let’s get this show on the road. You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you all together. The reason is, I’m a hopeless show-off.”

“That’s why we love you,” cried one of the actors.

Marty bowed. “Thanks, Loïc. Many of you have heard me express misgivings about wealth. About having all this.” While Marty waved his arm grandly, Tiffany stubbed out her cigarette after only two puffs and went over and stood beside Dean. “Well,” said Marty, pausing dramatically, “I’m keeping it.”

Cheers from the players.

“Sort of keeping it anyway.” A hush fell on the room. “I’m turning the house and fifty acres over to the Dutton Falls Players for a new playhouse.”

For twenty seconds no one spoke, and then, in tears, one of the actresses ran to Marty and hugged him. Others followed. When the commotion had finally subsided, Marty went on. “I’m also giving ten thousand dollars apiece to two people who, like myself, maybe didn’t love my brother but who nevertheless worked faithfully for him all these years.” He smiled at Trish and Tiffany, whose mouths had fallen open. “And finally, you, Rob.”

Clampitt stared at him.

“I’m not going to give you anything. Not outright anyway. But I will sell you something, at a very reasonable price, that you’ve wanted for a long time. Something my brother refused to sell.” A wry smile. “Probably because he knew how much you wanted it.” Knowing murmurs and sad chuckles from the group. Marty threw wide his arms and said, “Shincracker Hill.”

Rob Clampitt’s eyes were moist as he walked over and hugged Marty. When the applause died, Marty shouted, “Does anyone feel like a glass of champagne?”

The answer was a resounding yes.

Champagne corks bounced off the ceiling, glasses were clinked. After a while the actors excused themselves to look over the house and grounds. Dean was watching Rob raise his glass, with his left hand, for another sip. Rob saw him watching and with a slight frown moved away.